My horror story The Rise of Nilcaro Syndrome has been published in Issue 94 of Blood Moon Rising Magazine. This issue is available to view for free until next month, after which you’ll need to purchase it in their store if you’d like to read it.
In case horror isn’t really your thing, but you’d still like to read my story in particular, I’ve also uploaded it to my website: The Rise of Nilcaro Syndrome
This story is about a pandemic of flesh eating humans, from the perspective of a teenage boy living in Glasgow. It is a bit gory in places, but it’s mostly a story about how Johnny and his family react to the pandemic as it spreads across their community.
I should be posting details of another published horror story later on this week, so be on the look out for the next update!
Writing George Square started as a way to get myself back into regularly writing fiction. It was intended to be a novella that I would finish before I went back to work after maternity leave with my daughter. Instead, it turned into a 69,000 word novel with characters that I would love to explore more. Though, rest assured, George Square is a standalone story, with no cliffhangers waiting at the end!
After I started writing George Square, I began to enter short story contests, paid for a story writing course and have had several pieces of short fiction published. My writing ability has hugely improved in the last two years, so I’m sure that there’s a lot of editing to be done with the earlier chapters and the story as a whole. The editing will begin later this year after I finish editing the adult fantasy novel that I wrote a decade ago and hope to start querying with agents this year. Wish me luck!
So, it is with sadness that I say goodbye to Matthias, Esther, Griff and the others in this last chapter, but I look forward to going back and making their story even better! ☺️
Spillwords have published a Christmas story of mine called Fireside Memories. This was one of the first short stories I wrote after getting back into writing in early 2022, submitted to a Globe Soup contest to the theme of ‘an unlikely friendship’. I liked the idea of making the story about a man and ‘man’s best friend’, except in a world where that isn’t entirely the case any more. I’ve edited it a lot since the original draft and I also made it Christmassy for the submissions call with Spillwords, so it is a bit different from the first version. I’ve had some lovely feedback from other writers since it’s been published, which is a great little gift right before Christmas.
Finally, today I’ve uploaded another blog post, this time about using Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals (logos, ethos and pathos) in writing fiction. This is an example of The Rule of Three in action – Aristotle separates quite a few of his concepts into three parts, likely because he knew the rhetorical power of things that come in threes. His writing was clearly effective, given that we’re still talking about him more than two thousand years later!
This is my last post of 2023 so all that’s left is to thank you for following my blog this year and I hope you continue to enjoy my work next year. See you in 2024! 🥳
One of the main aims of any story teller is to convince their audience of something, whether that be to immerse them in a magical world, or make a theoretical argument, or to build an emotional connection with the characters. So how do you write a convincing story? What elements need to be there for an audience to buy into the narrative?
More than 2000 years ago, the philosopher Aristotle wrote On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse where he laid the foundations for all subsequent ideas about rhetoric and the art of persuasion.Aristotle posited that in order to make a persuasive argument a writer requires three rhetorical appeals:
Logos: making a logical argument. In non-fiction, this would mean that the narrative needs to be evidence based and structured in such a way that it pre-empts any counter argument.
Ethos: being credible and likeable. A writer needs to be seen as someone that the audience can trust and respect, someone whose argument is worth listening to, or someone whose ideals are similar to their own.
Pathos: connecting emotionally with the audience. This is about forming an emotion connection, either by evoking positive emotions for the narrative or negative emotions for the ideas or people who oppose the writer’s argument.
(As an aside to this blog post, this is an example of the power of the rule of three, which I’ve discussed previously. Artistotle breaks quite a few of his rhetorical concepts down to three parts, likely because he understood the power that the rule of three has in helping people to engage with and remember information.)
Aristotle’s ideas have been used to inform written and spoken work throughout the ages. His writings cover far more than just these three elements and are essentially a ‘how to’ guide for making an argument that people will listen to. Being a philosopher and scientist, Aristotle was most concerned with using discourse to communicate theoretical ideas rather than stories, but the basic concept is just as useful for writers wanting to ‘sell’ their fiction to their audience.
One thing that I think is important to note though, is that most writing doesn’t necessarily require all three of these factors to be successful. A not-very-good book by an internationally best-selling writer is likely to still sell a lot of copies regardless. A story that plucks at the heart strings well enough may be forgiven for some factual inaccuracies or internal inconsistencies. And a well-written story with an interesting argument to make may not need to appeal to the audience’s emotions to be remembered.
Logos within Fiction
Logos is all about a story making sense. It doesn’t necessarily have to be completely factually accurate but it the narrative has to flow in a way that readers can wrap their heads around and the rules of the world within the story need to be consistent.
Some stories use logos as the primary focus of the narrative. For example, Fountains of Paradise by Arthur C. Clarke is largely a speculative piece about the feasibility of a space elevator on earth. The characters are fairly two dimensional and forgettable, largely used as a means of progressing his scientific ideas. Another example would be The Martian by Andy Weir, who said in promoting his book that he worked hard to ensure that the novel was as scientifically accurate as possible.
On the other hand, we have the TV series Lost. Those of you who have watched it will remember waiting patiently for explanations for the polar bear that appears in the jungle in Season 1, or what was underneath the hatch, or what the numbers truly meant. Many explanations just led to further questions and by the finale there were several hanging threads that were never tied off. The story was often more about the characters anyway and many fans still felt satisfied by the closure they had by the end. However, plenty of others were disappointed by the lack of cohesive narrative, and the issues with the story have reduced its re-watch value for many fans.
While readers will tend to forgive the odd mistake here and there, or suspend their disbelief for a compelling enough story, it definitely weakens a story and disrupts our immersion if we find ourselves questioning the logic within the narrative.
Pathos within Fiction
If a writer can emotionally connect with an audience through their writing then they’ll create moments that are remembered long after the story is over. The example that sprang to my mind when writing this is from the movie The Never-ending Story. If you were a child when this movie came out, then you may already be picturing Atreyu desperately trying to rescue his horse Artax from drowning in the Swamp of Sadness only to fail and be left to continue his journey alone. The emotional connection that I felt for Atreyu has stuck with me well into my adulthood, cementing my memory of the movie along with it.
One way to use pathos to good effect, is to establish well-rounded characters that we can empathise with. By exploring their thoughts and feelings, their vulnerabilities and strengths, the audience starts to feel close to them, which leads to the reader feeling happy when life goes their way or upset when it doesn’t. Equally, writers can elicit more complex feelings by exploring different themes or dilemmas that might lead to the character making choices that readers might disagree with, eliciting their ire but still also forming an emotional connection with the story. One example of this is with Severus Snape from JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series. He is largely presented as an unlikeable character, who had fought for the villain Voldemort and was cruel to Harry in his time at Hogwarts. But he was also revealed to have been in love with Harry’s mother and working as a spy for the enemy in the present day. Many readers have been divided over whether his good actions outweigh the bad and whether his love for Harry’s mother and desire for redemption really make up for his behaviour toward Harry throughout the books.
Pathos can also be driven by the events of the story. If the characters are placed in a situation that the audience would find frightening or overwhelming, then the moment itself can trigger similar emotions even if the characters aren’t well developed yet. Horror movies take advantage of the power of pathos in this setting all the time. Often character development is limited but these films will draw on our fears of the events that are happening to the characters in order to keep us emotionally invested in the rest of the story.
Budding writers are told to ‘show, not tell’ in their narratives and pathos benefits the most from this technique. Research has shown that trying to picture a scene in our minds eye triggers activity in the same brain areas as when we are experiencing events ourselves. So the more we are immersed in the sensory experiences or the internal process of a character, the more connected we will feel with what is happening to them.
Ethos in Fiction
For storytelling, there are two ways in which ethos can apply. Firstly, within the story itself. A writer can demonstrate their credibility by writing well. If you start the first page and find spelling errors or clunky dialogue or figurative language that doesn’t seem to work, then you start to question whether their ideas are worth the time. Simply by making sure that their work is well-edited, a writer can demonstrate that are capable of telling a story and the audience is just that bit more likely to continue. All of the different storytelling techniques that writers try to learn, like the use of point of view, or story themes, or characterisation, or sentence structure, all combine to make them seem more credible to a reader.
But there are also factors outside of the book itself to be aware of. If an author is already well established then we trust that their content will be worth reading. We buy the next book in their series not based on any recommendations for that book, but based on our knowledge of the books that the writer has previously produced. This only takes a writer so far of course – if their audience reads the book and decides that its not on par with their previous work, then they’ll be less likely to buy the next story.
The importance of ethos is the reason why many writers are now on social media, posting about themselves and their work. If a reader feels that they know the writer, that they understand the writer’s point of view, then they’re more likely to pay for their work. Even before social media, books always had a blurb about the author, telling us something personal about them: unnecessary for enjoyment of the book, but sometimes those little details help us to decide whether a book is for us or not. I remember thinking that Jim Butcher was someone who might write my kind of fiction because his blurb said that he enjoyed playing tabletop games. I stuck a postcard of Terry Pratchett with rats on his shoulders up on my noticeboard because I loved my pet rats growing up and enjoyed the idea that I might share that love with one of my favourite writers.
Building credibility or likeability as a writer generally takes time. The Harry Potter series didn’t start to get big until it was three books in. Jim Butcher spent time on the convention circuit trying to make contacts in the literary industry before he found representation for his first Dresden Files book. Andy Weirposted his novel in a serialised format on his website and then self published it online but he had already spent years posting a web comic and short fiction on his website, building up the audience he needed to make his novel a success.
How does it all add together?
To go back to Aristotle, he believed that the most important element of these three concepts was logos, driven as he was by his attempts to convey rational, scientific argument in his work. When it comes to fiction, all three can play an important role in the success of a story. For a narrative to stand the test of time, any good writer will have considered how they are using each of these elements to contribute to the narrative that they want to sell to their audience. This doesn’t necessarily mean giving equal weight to each concept though – as already noted, Arthur C. Clarke wasn’t always very good with pathos but his stories carried scientific ideas that stood the test of time; and The Never-endingStory is remembered more for the emotional impact of the events on the characters. In terms of ethos, some writers work to sell themselves as much as they do their books, building connections with their fans, while others prefer not to be under the public eye, relying on the quality of their writing to establish their credibility. Each approach may build an audience, though it will likely be composed of different groups of people, drawn to the type of story that most appeals to them. The most important part for a writer is to consider their work and who they want their audience to be, so that they can use these three elements to help make their story a success.
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.
In my previous blog post The feral child archetype: stories and themes in real life and fiction, I introduced the concept of character archetypes that keep arising across different societies. Carl Jung believed that these archetypes represented elements of our psyche, coming to life within the stories that we tell each other.
Because archetypes are found in so many stories, everyone holds certain expectations about how these characters will behave when they are used in fiction. Writers can use these expectations as a tool to strengthen a narrative by using archetypes that speak to the themes that the writer is trying to convey. However, if they’re used poorly, a writer can risk their story simply sounding clichéd and derivative.
This blog post is about my favourite character archetype: The Trickster. They are the black sheep of the family; the jester in the court; the cause of the landslide falling down toward the village below. They are characters who are often morally ambiguous. If your life was made better by the trickster’s behaviour, was that intentional or just a by-product of them achieving their own goals? In folklore, tricksters aren’t the kind of gods that you welcome into your village, because you never know what chaos will follow them. You’re as likely to see your house burned to the ground as you are to see any benefit of their presence.
What is the trickster archetype?
The concept of the trickster is so endemic across society that Carl Jung listed the character as one of the archetypes that live within our collective unconscious. Jung’s Trickster is said to represent the irrational and chaotic elements of our personality. His role is to bring these elements to the surface. In doing so, he highlights the inconsistencies and humour in the lives we live.
Within folklore and mythology, the trickster character is a study in contrasts. Tricksters are rogues and thieves but they are also lovable scoundrels who bring a sense of playfulness and joy to a story. They are cunning and duplicitous but they are also often outsmarted and punished. They straddle the boundary between right and wrong, stability and chaos, and it depends on the story which side of the boundary they will fall.
Tricksters also speak to the absurdity of life. We live in a world where life inevitably leads to death; where pain and suffering are as endemic as happiness and laughter. Within stories the trickster often speaks to the unfairness of the world, but he laughs about it along the way, softening the underlying message of our lack of control over an uncaring universe.
Tricksters from myth and fiction
Tricksters can be found across the world, some more well known than others.
Loki – if you’re a fan of the MCU then you’ll already be familiar with Loki, the Norse god of mischief. Loki could change his shape and his sex. He was sometimes known to work with the gods and at other times he worked against them, the definition of disorder within Norse mythology. He frequently uses his cunning to solve problems for the gods, though on several occasions he had caused the problem in the first place. He becomes increasingly antagonistic toward the gods, eventually being bound and tortured until Ragnarok, when he would escape and contribute to their defeat and the rebirth of the world.
Maui – A Polynesian folk hero who was brought into mainstream awareness when he featured in Moana. Maui’s stories were told across most of Polynesia: he was known for bringing fire to humankind; pulling the islands from the ocean with his hook; and slowing down the movement of the sun. Maui’s stories frequently have him outwitting the gods to change the world for the betterment of humankind.
Anansi – the spider trickster of West African myth, Anansi is a crafty trickster who can fool humans, animals and gods alike, generally for the purpose of making his life easier and others’ lives more difficult. Legends say he helped give humankind the sun, moon and rain, as well as writing and agriculture.
Coyote – across Native American myth, several animals have trickster stories associated with them, including Raven, Bluejay, and Rabbit, but the most well known is Coyote. Not all Coyote stories agree with each other, but they all speak about a similar character. Coyote is known for such things as impatiently tossing the stars into the sky to form the milky way and making death permanent because he believed there wasn’t enough food for everyone to live forever.
Eris – the Greek goddess of discord. She is most well-known for starting a fight between the other goddesses after she wasn’t invited to a wedding, which ultimately led to the Trojan war.
Matilda – a child-friendly trickster story of a clever girl with special powers who uses her cunning to play pranks on the abusive adults around her. Their crimes are found out and she ends up living a happy life with her teacher.
Jack Sparrow – in Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow takes on the role of a trickster. He is a cunning character who cares only for his own self interest. He helps others when it benefits his goals and he always seems to escape any significant consequences for his actions.
Deadpool – the fourth-wall breaking anti-hero of the Marvel Universe, Deadpool often sits on the edge of good versus bad, his actions generally driven by his own impulsive urges rather than any long term plan. He has a regenerative healing factor so he throws himself into danger, with little need to care about the consequences. Deadpool often speaks to the audience in his stories, cracking jokes and making fun of the narrative as well as the wider comic universe.
The features of a trickster
There are certain features that tend to define tricksters across the world:
Their motives are ambiguous or fickle
Often they make impulsive choices based on their own needs and wants, and it’s never clear how much they intend to help or hinder those around them. In African myth, Anansi decided that he wanted to become wise, so he gathered a bit of wisdom from everyone in the village, storing it in a gourd. He tried to climb a tree to hide his wisdom with the gourd on his belt. When his son saw Anansi struggling, he suggested wearing it on his back. Anansi realised that even with all that wisdom, his son was still wiser than him, so he cast the contents of the gourd away, thus spreading wisdom all across the world.
They play tricks
Tricksters are cunning and devious. Their stories often involve them manipulating those around them, sometimes to meet their own needs, sometimes to make fun of their victims and knock them down a peg or two. Esu, an African god, once intervened when two farmers promised never to argue. He wore a hat which was black on one side and white on another and after causing the farmers to argue over the colour, then turns it inside out and tells them it’s red. There is a Coyote story where he goes to the Frog People, who hold control of all the water. Coyote doesn’t like this, so he asks for a drink, which they allow, but while his head is under the water he makes a hole in the dam, allowing the other animals to drink freely and creating all the rivers and waterfalls.
They are masters of disguise
Some tricksters, like Loki, are shape-shifters who change form to trick those around them. Others, like Coyote, might use disguises to hide who they are.
Messenger and antagonist of the gods
Tricksters often have a close connection with the gods but whether they help or hinder them very much depends on the trickster’s mood during that particular story. Take Loki, for example, in one story he cuts off the goddess Sif’s golden hair as a prank but when he is caught, he travels to the dwarves and lavishes them in praise and false promises so that they will produce a cap of golden hair to replace it.
Their actions disrupt the status quo
Often after a trickster story, something about the situation they were in has fundamentally changed, like fire being stolen from the gods by Maui, Prometheus or Coyote; or wisdom being shared with humanity by Anansi. There is a story in Norse mythology where Loki causes the death of Baldur, a god of light and purity, known for his kindness and wisdom. There was a prophecy about Baldur’s death and his mother tried to avoid it by making every entity vow not to harm him. She didn’t ask mistletoe though, and when Loki heard this he tricked Baldur’s brother into firing a mistletoe arrow and killing Balder. Baldur’s death, the death of light and truth, is the first step towards Ragnarok, where the world will be destroyed, to rise again renewed and cleansed.
What are the themes in trickster stories?
Even the smallest among us can change the world
One example of trickster stories being used to inspire comes from Anansi. With the rise of the slave trade, Anansi became a symbol of slave resistance – the representation of a strategy to turn the tides on powerful oppressors. Anansi’s stories were also a connection to their African heritage and a means of retaining their identity. By telling stories about a character who could shape the world despite not being powerful, slaves were able to hold on to a small piece of their agency in a time when their slavers sought to take it from them.
Those in charge aren’t always right
Trickster stories tell us that conforming to society’s rules isn’t always the best thing to do. By breaking the rules and challenging authority, sometimes we can create a better world to live in.
You don’t have to conform to be happy
tricksters throughout the world stand out from the crowd in various ways. They change shape; they’re promiscuous; they’re impulsive; they don’t think about the consequences of their actions. And yet, they are generally happy characters. They are content in who they are and find power in being different, often actually looking down on those who do try to conform to the rules and boundaries that the trickster is often breaking.
There is a cost to challenging authority
Trickster stories also warn us of the consequences of being the one who challenges the status quo. Even when tricksters succeed at their goal, they can be ostracised or punished for their actions by the gods, animals or people they have tricked. Maui dies trying to achieve immortality; Loki is tortured until Ragnarok; Prometheus is cursed to have his liver perpetually eaten by an eagle. There is a freedom to acting on your impulses, to doing as you please and having no respect for authority, but it also makes you an outsider. People generally don’t like change and they may not thank the person who causes it.
Are tricksters still relevant today?
Here in the 21st century, there is still a need for someone who helps us to find our voice within the crowd. In the public sphere, there are debates over transgender rights and we question what it truly means to be a man or a woman – or whether the distinction is even necessary. This is something that trickster stories have been touching on for centuries. Many tricksters are male but they are often shown to be comfortable in female form (Loki, in fact, while generally presented as male, is also a mother to the eight-legged horse Sleipnir). This crossing of the boundary between male and female showed that societal expectations for men and women were as subject to challenge by the trickster as any other boundary and no more static than any other aspect of society. In this modern world where gender definitions and expectations are increasingly varied, perhaps a trickster, who has no concern for gender or for societal expectations of sexuality, is the kind of character who might speak most strongly to those trying to work out how they slot into society.
The same might be true for neurodiversity. We are more aware of neurodiversity than ever before and diagnoses of ADHD and ASD are at an all time high, but what those labels mean in terms of who we are and how we fit in the world is still unclear for a lot of people. The tricksters can be impulsive, hyperactive, unconcerned with social niceties, more concerned with their own agenda than anyone else’s and often live on the edge of society. They are the odd ones out and they don’t care, because they are comfortable with who they are. Characters who show us how to be confident may lead the way in helping us find confidence for ourselves.
Linking back to Jung’s theories, there are parts of the trickster archetype in all of us. The trickster inside demands that we rail against discrimination; that we challenge those in authority to accept our differences and to move with the times; that we give into our impulses and just do as we please. But the trickster also knows what it costs to take on that role and that society at large will not always accept difference – it takes a level of bravery, and sometimes foolishness too, to not care what others think.
In the end, we write stories about tricksters to help us to reconcile those two sides of the coin – characteristics of the trickster are necessary to prevent our society from stagnating, but they are also to be feared, because who knows what the consequences of those actions might be?
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.
Spillwords have published an interview with me that you are welcome to read on their website. They also published a shorter interview that I had completed before becoming author of the month, but which actually came out a week or so afterwards. I’m not really one for chatting much about myself, but I guess if I want to eventually sell my writing, part of that will involve sharing some of myself with my audience. Thank you to Spillwords for pushing me out of my comfort zone! 🙈
Globe Soup also announced the winners and finalists for their 2023 open contest at the beginning of the month. My story made it into a finalist place, which was amazing and another huge boost to my confidence as a writer, but also makes me feel a bit of a bridesmaid – when do I get to be the one who takes home the prize? 🤣 That said, the winners were very well written and their prizes well-deserved, so if you’re looking for something short to read, you can’t go wrong with checking them out 😊
In terms of my plan for the next few weeks, I should be posting my next Storytelling blog post within the week. Wish me luck!
In a previous post, ‘What is a story?’, I talked about Christopher Booker’s seven proposed story archetypes. These archetypes describe the narrative structures that are most commonly seen in the stories that we tell. Brooker’s ideas were informed by the psychiatrist Carl Jung, who introduced the concept of a collective unconscious, an ancestral memory of different concepts that influence our behaviour and which echo across the world in our stories. Jung’s focus was on the development of the human psyche and, as a result, his proposed archetypes tended to focus more on characters rather than narratives. While some of his work might seem outdated now, these characters still persist within our stories.
The wild child through history
Most people will be familiar with the concept of the feral child. A child who has lived from a young age without human contact, usually raised by animals to connect with the wisdom of the wild. This concept can be found in literary fiction and in mythology across the world.
Enkidu, a character from the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, is the oldest known example of a wild man. He was created by the goddess of creation and roamed free with the herds. When he copulates with a prostitute, the animals smell the human scent on him and reject him, forcing him to learn the ways of humankind. Romulus and Remus, the twin founders of Rome, are well-known by their story of having been suckled by a wolf before being adopted by a shepherd and his wife. The Iranian šāhnāmeh (‘Book of Kings’) has Zaal, a mythical king who was rejected by his father and raised by a simurgh until his father realised the error of his ways.
A more modern example is Mowgli from Rudyard Kipling’s ‘The Jungle Book’, although many will also be familiar with him from the Disney adaptation. The book’s story is one of a boy who is abandoned and finds himself part of both human and animal worlds. His last story, before he departs from the jungle to live with Man as an adult, talks about Mowgli’s sadness and tears, something that separates him from his animal companions. While he accepts that he belongs in the world of Man, this acceptance can be seen as a loss, much like children have to give up aspects of freedom and play to grow into adults.
Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan, on the other hand, is a tale of escapism from the perspective of a masculine White man who is stronger, faster and smarter than the humans and animals around him. His survival skills and connection with the jungle rise him up above his enemies but he retains enough of a connection with his Western upper class heritage to live as he pleases in the human world.
‘Where the Wild Things Are’ by Maurice Sendack is a children’s book about a ‘wild child’. The concepts are more allegorical but still similar – Max journeys in his dreams to become King of the Wild Things, then returns home, having gained a level of mastery over himself, and become stronger because of it.
The real feral children
The reality of children living with animals is far less entertaining. The human brain has critical periods of development which, if missed, can lead to long term disability.
The real life inspiration for Mowgli, Dina Sanichar, was found living with wolves as a six year old. Hunters killed the mother wolf and took him to an orphanage. He learned to walk upright, put on clothes and use a plate but he never learned a language or how to fit in with human society.
Oxana Malaya is assumed to have lived with dogs from the age of three to eight after her alcoholic parents abandoned her. Discovered in 1994, she was able to learn to talk and walk upright but still lives in an adult care facility now. The similar story of Ivan Mishukov has a happier ending. He lived with dogs in the city for two years from around four and was later taken in by a loving foster family and able to reintegrate into society.
Another man, Marcus Pantoja, lived with wolves for twelve years in isolation after being sold by his abusive stepmother to a man who subsequently died. He recalls living among the animals and being able to communicate with them. In reality, he probably projected social intention on their actions in order to feel less alone – they would come when he had food, and he would see it as friendship. Marcus was seven when he ended up alone in the mountains, so had learned enough language to be able to rebuild his skills when he returned to society, but he has always struggled to adapt to the human world. As recently as 2018, aged 72, he voiced that he still wished he could return to the mountains.
What do stories about feral children try to tell us?
These real life stories and examples from history suggest various themes that might arise in a narrative about a feral child.
Survival:
Both the real and fictional characters raise the question of how to survive when society has rejected you or left you behind. We are social creatures and for most of us the thought of complete isolation is a scary prospect. Fictional narratives tell us that we can survive rejection and find a place to belong, though the reality often tells us the opposite.
Found families:
In many cases of feral children in fiction, the animals that raise them become their families. Often they have human traits, are able to speak and behave like the people whose role they’ve fulfilled for the child in the story. As such, these narratives tell us that even when our biological family cannot look after us, others will take their place and we won’t be alone. The simurgh who takes in Zaal, for example, comes at his call to offer help even after he returns to his father.
The differences between humans and animals:
In a story that begins with a child being abandoned, it’s animals who ensure that he or she is cared for. They don’t judge or threaten – they offer food, companionship and protection when no human offers it. In real life, the best example of this is probably with animals that are used to living with humans to begin with. For example, the dogs that Ivan Mishukov lived with tried to defend him from the police and were killed when they kept trying to reach him in the orphanage he was taken to. The implied message underneath this animal behaviour in stories is that humans aren’t always capable of the same unjudging acceptance – humans develop prejudices and flaws and mental health difficulties that prevent them from offering the human connection that their loved ones might need. In the midst of that, many would say that the uncomplicated love of an animal is a welcome comfort.
Our ties to human society:
Even stories like Tarzan that include a return to the jungles, make it clear that living forever with the animals isn’t feasible. Mankind have separated ourselves from animalkind and no matter how long we live in the wilds, we must eventually accept that we are in some way different from our animal companions. Most stories featuring a feral child involve that child returning to human society, sometimes with difficulty, though often as a stronger, more empowered individual for having reconnected with their wild roots.
The beauty and simplicity of nature: This concept is usually in contrast to the complexity and potential cruelty of human society. Living in the wilderness is presented as a more simplistic way of living. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s safer, and often there are a lot of survival related dangers in the wilderness, but they may be presented as being easier to navigate, the enemies forthright and open about their intentions. In Mowgli’s story, he is cast out for witchcraft when he first tries to reintegrate with humankind and his adoptive parents are tarred with the same brush, prompting him to send animals to help them. Marcus Pentoja has consistently said that he struggles with human society and found life among the animals far easier to navigate.
Power in difference:
Surviving in the wilds often leads to the main character being stronger and more able than many of the humans they encounter. Tarzan for example, frequently bested humans who tried to threaten him or his family. Zaal gained wisdom from being raised by the ancient simurgh. As the narrative goes, survival in the wilderness empowers the main character, to be stronger than the humans who rejected them, through connecting with their animal nature. But it may also show that being different than those around you can be to your advantage – the outcasts, the rejects, they can overcome their bullies because they have their own unique skills.
The strength of the archetype
Archetypes play a role in setting reader expectations and they are a shorthand tool that a writer can employ in order to communicate the themes of their story. They have been used within stories likely since stories began to be told. Used well, they can strengthen a narrative by speaking to the themes that the writer is trying to convey. However, used poorly, they risk coming across as clichéd and plagiaristic.
The most important factor in using them to their full potential is being clear about the themes that they evoke when they’re introduced into a narrative. Those themes need to tie well with the story being told so that it’s clear why the character is there, or else the reader may find the story unfocused, or assume that the writer is being lazy by relying on the archetype to define their character for them.
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves of fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.
“‘I meant,’ said Ipslore bitterly, ‘what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?’ Death thought about it. CATS, he said eventually. CATS ARE NICE.”
– Sir Terry Pratchett
What is anthropomorphism?
The above quote is an example of a character interacting with an anthropomorphic personification of a natural phenomenon. In simpler terms, this is when a non-human object or animal (or concept in this case) is shown to display human traits and be capable of human behaviour. Death in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series is a sentient being, who raises a daughter, hires an apprentice and, as noted in this quote, has his own personal likes and dislikes. His existence is shown on several occasions to ease the process of dying, making death an experience that is tinged with a level of familiarity, and less scary as a result. Pratchett also uses him as a tool through which he can observe and reflect on the complexities of life and death, though the perspective of a character who technically experiences neither.
There is a slight distinction to be made between anthropomorphism and personification, two similar but distinct literary devices. Anthropomorphism involves imbuing non-human things with human traits and human behaviour, for example, the animals in Animal Farm; or Thomas the Tank Engine; or Winnie the Pooh. Personification involves giving inanimate objects or natural phenomena human-like characteristics, like saying that the sun is smiling or opportunity is knocking at the door. Personification is intended to be more figurative, while anthropomorphism is more literal.
Death in the Discworld is technically an anthropomorphism, although he is used by other characters as a personification, so he is really a bit of both.
Why do we anthropomorphise?
There have been many theories about the reasons for anthropomorphism throughout history. David Hume, a philosopher and scientist with an interest in the origins of religious beliefs, argued that anthropomorphism was an attempt to rationalise an unfamiliar world using the model that humans were most knowledgeable about, namely the model of humans themselves. But then, humans also anthropomorphise animals and objects that they are familiar with, like laughing dogs and spoons that run off with dishes.
Sigmund Freud, the famous psychoanalyst, saw it as an attempt to make a hostile and threatening world into something familiar and thus less threatening. But humans frequently attempt to personify sounds and images into something scary, like thinking the creak of a floorboard is a burgler.
The true answer is probably a mix of both. Humans look for patterns and stories in the world. Our brains are predisposed to see connections and to turn disparate parts into wholes. In doing so, we rationalise something unknown and make it familiar – even if we believe it’s something dangerous, at least it’s a danger that we can categorise.
Remember Heidel and Simmel’s moving shapes from my post about why we tell stories? These were an example of anthropomorphism, where basic shapes were conferred human intention and behaviour by their observers with the purpose of making sense of the movements they were seeing. And there is a survival benefit in being predisposed to see agency in the world around us – there is less of a cost to mistakenly thinking that a moving object is alive, than there is in ignoring a living creature that’s a potential threat.
We can find examples of anthropomorphism in stories across human history. Native Americans and Australian Aboriginals used animals to tell stories about the creation of the world and teach moral lessons about society. Religions across the world historically often described anthropomorphised gods – representations of natural phenomenon like the sun, love or war, who married, grew jealous and had children, just like humans.
As far as the human brain is concerned, we are surrounded by creatures who are just like us, even when they are not.
The use of anthropomorphism in literature
Writers through the ages have often used anthropomorphism within their stories. This device takes advantage of humans’ natural propensity to confer human-like traits on others. The purpose of this device is dependent on the story being told.
Take Animal Farm by George Orwell, for example. This book is a satirical allegory for Russia’s communist revolution, with the animal’s representing different groups or people from Russian history. But yet, the story is removed enough from the reality that it critiques to have lasted the test of time, becoming like a fairy tale, where the underlying message remains relevant regardless of current history.
People read the story without their real world preconceptions being triggered, meaning that the story itself has room to challenge the reader to think about the rights and wrongs of these animals’ decisions and behaviour. The story presents these questions to the reader in far more general terms than a story about people in Russia would have done and thus makes the reader consider their general view on similar situations, rather than their opinion on Russia specifically.
Another powerful example of the use of anthropomorphism is Watership Down by Richard Adams. In this example, the anthropomorphism serves a slightly different purpose. The rabbits in the story have a society much like a human one, with their own culture, mythology and language. The characters exist in a world fraught with danger, with humans being one of the biggest. Here, Adams takes advantage of our preconceptions about rabbits – they’re our pets, they’re cute little animals that we see bounding across the grass. We start off with an image of a vulnerable creature, which serves to further emphasise the risks when the characters are threatened, as well as increasing our empathy for their plight.
This story also challenges the reader by placing them in the position of the enemy against a very humanised group of animals – thus indirectly raising questions around how we treat and understand animals but also how we might treat other humans whose culture is significantly different from our own. If those questions had been posed through the lens of refugees coming to Britain, facing threats from the government or challenges from the locals, I would argue that the story would have lost an element of the emotional resonance and timelessness which has sustained this book’s popularity.
Anthropomorphism for children
The talking animals in children’s stories serve a similar purpose to those in adult literature. They turn the narrative into something that exists outside of known human culture but also tells our children something about how the world works. Anthropomorphism helps children to absorb the underlying message of the story by creating a level of emotional distance from the narrative, allowing for a staged introduction into potential real-life challenges.
Take Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf eats the girl’s grandmother and could have killed her. He’s defeated by the woodsman in the end, but he’s still a dangerous threat to the little girl. Imagine if that wolf was a human – a man who had broken into Grandmother’s house and killed her, then lain in wait to pounce on Little Red. Young children need to be aware there are dangers in the world but we also don’t want them suspicious of every adult they meet. The wolf is a substitute for the real risk, a gentle warning until children are old enough to understand the complexities of human behaviour.
Another, less extreme example of this, is the story of the Ugly Duckling. The poor duckling is rejected by the ducks and made fun of by other animals, until he sheds his downy fur, and is welcomed by a flock of swans come spring. When children read this story, they feel sad for the duckling and learn a bit about acceptance along the way. But what parent would want to read them the story of the Ugly Child – a boy who’s adoptive mother didn’t love him, whose peers made fun of him, and who didn’t really find somewhere to belong until he grew up? The message is the same, but the distance is gone and it starts to feel like something that could happen in the home or in the playground, rather than a distant allegory.
Anthropomorphism done well
The examples that I’ve given from literature mostly use a fully anthropomorphised setting – where everyone is an anthropomorphic animal. But, much as with Terry Pratchett’s Death, this device can be used in smaller ways to achieve an effect within a larger story, such as Aslan the lion from Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia; or Michael Bond’s Paddington Bear; or the range of fantastical characters in Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.
Anthropomorphism works best when the form of the character is used with purpose. All humans are predisposed to anthropomorphise, which means that we come with a range of preconceptions that can be taken advantage of. Lions are strong predators but also sociable felines; rabbits are cute pets to some and prolific rodents to others. Anthropomorphism that works well in literature often uses these preconceptions to strengthen the story’s character, or does the opposite by subverting expectations.
As well, it’s important to consider why a story is using anthropomorphism. What is it about the theme of the story that means an anthropomorphic character is better than a human? Does the reader need emotional distance to be able to reflect on the underlying meaning of the story, like with The Ugly Duckling? Does the character serve as a way of changing the readers view of an abstract concept, like Death? The purpose doesn’t necessarily need to be obvious to the reader, but the story will be stronger and more meaningful if the writer has considered what it is.
When used well, anthropomorphism can be an effective literary device that serves to strengthen the symbolism and themes within a story. It can turn a narrative into a timeless classic that speaks to the human condition in a manner that will remain relevant across generations.
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves of fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.
Once again I need to come up with something to say to you all 😂
My daughter wondering what I’ve achieved this week 😅
I’ve been taking a bit of a break from writing this week due to being on holiday in a wee cottage near Annan. This holiday included my 1 year old and 4 year old, so largely included play parks and food, but we did get the reward of hot tub time in the evening once the kids had been put to bed, with a lovely view over the fields.
View from our patio
From a writing point of view, I mostly spent my time this month preparing a short story for Globe Soup’s Open Contest, which you could enter if you had paid for their writing course. Admittedly, I probably haven’t read their lessons as thoroughly as I should have, but I think the story that I finished with was fairly decent – hopefully the judges agree! 🙂
Since then, I’ve been editing the latest chapter of George Square and coming up with ideas for my next Storytelling blog. I even managed to find some time to submit a few stories to online magazines – hopefully at least one will be accepted!
In good news for this month, one of my stories was a finalist in the 10th Globe Soup 7 day story writing challenge. The winning story, by Morgan McIntyre, was really good and definitely worth a read.
My story for this contest had to be historical fiction, which is not my favourite. Largely because my historical knowledge is rubbish – while I used to be good at remembering dates and names for exams in school, my brain refuses to store such details as part of my ongoing general knowledge. Thankfully, historical fiction can also include fantasy elements, so this story was basically a story about a kelpie that happened to be set during the Highland Clearances. As always, my next step is to spend months on end trying to find someone who wants to publish it, so wish me luck! 🙈
In less good but still positive news, I submitted a sci-fi story to F&SF (The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction), who are a pretty big magazine if you’re into sci-fi and fantasy. They rejected my story but with a very positive email, saying that they didn’t think I would have trouble finding a home for it. A sign of further improvement in my work! Now I need to submit to other places until I find one that says yes 🙂
Feel free to check out my other published work or have a look at my Storytelling blog, about the psychology within storytelling.
Have you ever noticed how many things come in threes? You can find several examples in children’s stories, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears or The Three Little Pigs. Or you could look to adult fiction to find the three ghosts that haunt Ebenezer Scrooge, the three witches in Macbeth or Beetlejuice being summoned by three repetitions of his name.
The rule of three even pervades our understanding of science and religion, such as Newton’s three rules of motion and Christianity’s holy trinity.
When we think of well known phrases, many can be reduced to three words: “Ready, aim, fire.” “Lights, Camera, Action.” “Live, laugh, love.”
The idea behind the rule of three is that groupings of this number are more memorable, more emotionally resonant and more persuasive than just one or two, or even four or five.
But why?
Why do memorable things come in threes?
There is a potential reason why our stories are littered with threes, though the theory hasn’t been definitively proven. The best explanation seems to be that our brains look for patterns in everything.
Even the simplest of visual scenes cause us to imbue meaning where there is none. In the 1940s, Heider and Simmel presented research participants with a simple video of basic shapes moving across the screen and found that participants were quick to attribute emotions, motivations and purpose to these two dimensional triangles and lines.
But even with a brain desperate to find meaning in the world, we need something first to apply it to. Three is the smallest number of iterations that can form a cohesive pattern. Take this visual example:
Two Item Pattern
With just two images, you can’t be sure yet what the pattern is and may question if there even is one. There could be a different shape coming next, the circle could be repeated, they might not be related to each other at all. You could guess but you wouldn’t feel sure. Now look at this one:
Three Item Pattern
Do you feel more confident that the next image will be a circle? Do you feel like you’re looking at a pattern rather than just two unconnected shapes? Seeing the three together tends to lead to a feeling of cohesiveness, where our brains start to assume that they are part of a whole.
The same logic works with the formation of a pattern using words or narrative – by the time of the third example, you’re able to draw conclusions about the writer’s intention. But it also becomes a complete arc, something with a beginning, middle and end, something we are very familiar with in storytelling.
Everyone can remember three things
Another advantage to the rule of three is that the repetition helps us to remember the message or story. The cue given by the pattern acts as a memory aid, causing the story to stick in your mind.
In folklore, making stories memorable was particularly important because they were often passed on from person to person, rather than being written down. Even now, filmmakers and authors want us to remember what we have seen so that we can recommend it to our friends and family.
This is likely another reason that our brains like to work in threes. Research shows that an adult has the working memory capacity to hold seven items in mind, plus or minus two. But a child averages around three or four.
Additionally, looking back at the Heidel and Simmer research, a subsequent study by Wick et al. (2020) has shown that even adults, when presented with multiple shapes, struggle to agree on and follow narratives for images with more than four shapes, and performance was best when there were three.
They question why this was such a small number, when you consider that many stories have more than three characters, or three story events, but this is likely to be because of our brain’s ability to ‘chunk’ information into larger parts in real life. We have to work hard to find meaning in random triangles, but life experiences often have connections that we can draw on to help our memory. So we may still only be able to recall three things, but those three things can be much larger if we can group smaller parts into a bigger whole.
For example, if my working memory is capacity is only for four numbers, and I want to learn 12 digits, I could remember them as “1231 – 4367 – 3476″ but I would probably struggle as the number of digits increased, because the different numbers would risk getting confused in my mind.
Or if I was trying to remember a story I was told, I could remember it by breaking it down into sections, for example, a house of straw blown down by the wolf, a house of sticks blown down the by wolf, then a house of bricks that stayed standing.
When you think that common folklore is often a warning, a message about how to behave or what to protect yourself from, you want everyone to remember the story, so you need it to be as simple as possible, while still containing the information that’s important. So stories were written with a level of repetition to help keep them memorable, but they were also kept short enough to ensure that as little information as possible was lost when they were re-told later by whoever had heard it.
Using the rule of three in writing
There are a few ways that writers can take advantage of the rule of three to make their work more memorable and emotionally resonant.
The three act structure:
The standard form of this is the beginning, middle and end. The set up, the identification of the problem, then the resolution. This doesn’t mean that you need to follow chronological order – plenty of stories build anticipation by showing the end first, then revealing how the characters got there. Your story doesn’t even need to include these elements in the events around the character – in a character driven story, these three elements might all be about how the character resolves an internal conflict.
Repetition in the narrative:
You will have read stories that use this technique – the Goldilocks narrative where something is too hot, too cold, then just right; or the granting of three wishes from a Genie. These narratives allow for elements to be repeated three times within the narrative itself, meaning that the detail within the story is better remembered.
The tricolon:
You can introduce this at the sentence level to make your conveyed message more memorable. These are a set of three parallel words or phrases, similar in length or structure. The use of this technique allows you to build rhythm within the sentence, as well as building emphasis in the content.
When using a tricolon, try to consider that certain patterns often work better than others. Repetition of the same, or very similar, words can work well to place emphasis on your point, such as “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth” or “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. But there are other well known examples that establish a different pattern whereby the first two words or clauses are similar – this can be in terms of rhythm, length, syntax, sound – and you then end on something different and usually longer, which emphasises the last section by causing it to stand out from the others. Take for example, “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness” or Edgar Allan Poe’s line “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping.”
The rule of three is everywhere
The rule of three is such a pervasive form of rhetoric within writing that you will likely see me reference concepts that use it in future articles. But even before then, I’m sure you’ll find many more examples of it in books, television or public speaking.
If you are a writer, look through your work and see if you can spot any examples of it. Or if you enjoy reading, flick through your nearest book and see what you can find.
If you enjoyed reading this, feel free to like, comment and share 😉
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If you’re interested in reading my previous Storytelling posts, you can find them here
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She is a lover of fantasy in all forms and fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.
Caroline Ashley 